Answered Prayers
by ohmistars
Summary: Edward Masen has never been more sure of his life's calling until he met Bella Swan. While he continues on the road so infrequently traveled, he dabbles between sin and strength. Entry for the Plot Bunny Contest.


**ENTRY FOR THE PLOT BUNNY CONTEST**

**Story Name:** Answered Prayers

**Penname:** ohmistars

**Rating:** M

**Word Count (not including header/author's note):** 8,740

**To see other entries in the Plot Bunny Contest, please visit the following C2:** **http:/www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/community/Plot_Bunny_Contest/82048/**

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As I pack box after box, I know that this is right. Sorting through my possessions has been cleansing in a way that I was never aware existed. I am starting over, only taking what I need, and giving away the rest. There are moments when I wonder if I'm making the right choice, and then there are others – like this – where I am confident that I've chosen the right path, the path that God wants me on.

Riley asks once more if I'm confident in my choice. "Are you sure, man? Washington and Jesus are what you really want? I mean; it's not like you can't still get out of this if you want to."

Riley doesn't understand that this was what I was put on this earth to do, and perhaps he never will. My decisions have been made. My mind is set, and I tell him so. "I'm sure."

.o.

In the morning, I load my car with everything I own. Riley assists with a grim line on his face. His eyes are sad, and so are mine. We've been together for the past six years, and I will miss him more than I can say. I'm not only leaving behind a roommate, but one of the best friends I've ever had, and an upstanding man as well.

The work goes quickly between the two of us. Words are scare, but there is nothing that needs to be said. The air falls thick around our steps to and from the apartment. This is the moment we have both been dreading. Goodbyes are always tedious. It seems as if the seconds are ticking by like trickling molasses, but is could only be my wishful thinking. Before long, the backseat and trunk are full to the brim, and the time to say farewell is here.

I turn to face Riley and his somber face. Few times in my life have I seen this expression. The happy-go-lucky light of his smile has been overtaken by a shadow of sadness. Conflicting guilt crawls into my chest knowing that it was Iwho did this to him, but at the same time, I know that it would be wrong to stay if the only reason was to appease his wishes.

"You'll call me when you get there, right?" he asks, tight-lipped.

"Of course."

I move to hug him, and he hugs me back with fierce arms. I will miss him, but I know this is not the end. The cast of the sky is warm on my back as I draw away. The Arizona sun is already so hot at such an early hour of the new day – another thing I will miss amongst everything else that I am leaving behind.

The front seat's black leather is burning on the back of my shorts and knees as I slide into the driver's side door and rev the engine. Riley leans into my open window with one final exchange. "Drive safe, Ed," he says. "Godspeed." His grin is tense, but genuine, and my returning chortle and half-smile is just as bittersweet.

"Goodbye, Riley."

I wave as I drive out of the apartment parking lot, trying to save this last moment in Phoenix to the recesses of my memory as best as I can. If I am lucky, fifteen hundred miles under my tires will fly by, and I will be in Port Angeles tomorrow before nightfall.

.o.

Five stops for gas, four Big Macs, three traffic jams, two phone calls from my mother, and one shady motel later, I am twenty minutes away from St. Angela's parish and the beginning of the next chapter in my life.

The bite of late autumn air is so different from the dry warmth of the Arizona fall. The cold caught me in the tip of California, only hours before the Oregon border where I stopped for the night. While the chill is the polar opposite of where I just came from, it is welcome, nonetheless. It brings me back to my Chicago roots and memories of Thanksgivings in the windy city, midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and so much more.

There is an anxious excitement coursing through my veins as I pass through the twisting, evergreen-flecked road. The combination of the rhythm of my windshield wipers, splat of occasional fat raindrops, hum of my engine, and the sound of my heart beating out of my chest echo as loud as an orchestra in the cab. So many plans are riding on the seminary only three miles away; I would hardly be human if I wasn't a bit weary of what's to come. I am clueless to what I should expect. Reading is no substitute for reality, but I hope to the Father that what I have learned so far is only a minor deviation from the truth.

Suddenly, my turn is here as if it had just popped out of thin air, and there is no time to be nervous. I pull through a heavily wooded drive and approach my new home with trepidation and what I hope is blind faith that things will all turn out. Ahead of me lies a Gothic style stone church, dotted with stained glass, and surrounded by forest that extends for as far as the eye can see.

The pictures I had seen could hardly do this justice.

I follow the path into a gravel lot to the left of the where I park and stretch my legs for the first time in what seems like days, still in awe at the beauty around me. Eventually, I begin to walk towards the massive front doors where a blonde man with a cordial smile is waiting. For a second I wonder if I swallowed a chrysalis or three, because the butterflies in my abdomen are threatening to wreck me before anything is to begin. He extends his hand to me after I climb the solitary set of stairs leading up to the church. The handshake is firm, but amicable, and immediately puts me at ease.

"You must be Edward Masen," he says warmly. "I'm Carlisle Cullen, and welcome to St. Angela's."

He opens the door to me, and I follow him in, never feeling that something is more right than I do now.

.o.

I have spent one month to the day at St. Angela's, and it has been a life-altering experience that I will never forget.

The man who greeted me at the entry to the sanctuary has come to be one of my closest companions. Carlisle Cullen is the head deacon of the parish, but most of his work is done at the Port Angeles hospital where he reads any last rights and baptizes preterm babies in emergency c-section operating rooms. When he's not serving there, he is an administrator for the parish and all of its almsgiving organizations. His wife Esme, whom he loves dearly, is seven months pregnant with their first child, and he is nearly consumed by an ecstatic high akin to those received by addicts at all hours of the day. If one person were to be canonized before reaching Heaven's gates, it would be Carlisle Cullen. Compassion is his forte, his vocation – his calling.

Carlisle took me for a tour that first day through the church, the chapel, and all of the halls. I had found each window with nothing but colored glass filled with depictions of Scripture and the saints. Inside, the sandstone exterior laid a framework of blackened-brown oak like the encasing ribs of a whale, carefully framing the sheeted panels emblazed with the Stations of the Cross. The floor was a cream marble with gentle ambers leaking in and out, as if the hue really was oozing out the cracks between the off-white blocks.

A proud altar remained at one end, while an overlooking choir loft stood at the other, bookends for the rows upon rows of dark wood pews. I remember gasping distinctly at the craftsmanship as I was assaulted by one image after another of what could only have resulted from hours of labor, planning, and care. There was a moment where I had to stop to catch my breath.

The chapel was an extension the church only separated by fifteen yards of roofed walkway. The doors opened to a rounded room, equally as beautiful as the church, but more quaint and demure. A statue of St. Angela Merici faced more wooden seating behind the modest altar. The windows were not solely filled with portraits of sorrow, sickness, death, and loss, but with also scenes of miracles and joy.

From the chapel, Carlisle had lead me down to the dorms where I am now humbled to say I call home.

There are three other boys in St. Angela's training to become ordained priests as I am. Michael Newton, Paul Quittle, and Marcus Simon have each been studying longer than I, but we are all quite similar. With us, there is no debating over views, stances, and opinions. We are united by a common faith, and for once, I am surrounded completely by other people who understand instead of simply accept.

Throughout my college, high school, and even junior high years, I have always felt like the one black sheep. Wanting to say a grace before a meal or a small prayer before a game passed with a sidelong glance or two no matter what. Faith was wanted to hide behind closed doors, and I am ashamed to say that I failed to put up a sufficient fight. Even still, none of my peers were religious in the slightest, and as a result, it was ostracizing.

But now…

There are no furrowed glares or snide comments, and for the first time, I feel like I truly belong.

.o.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent, and Father Black assigned my responsibility to lead the children's liturgy. Before the service, I am to meet with the coordinator of our youth department to go over what should be said and what will be involved in the premier children's liturgy of the word for this year. I am nervous at the prospect of leading _anything_ for the first time, but the feeling is doubled when I remember the kids. Children are a tough crowd. They walk a thin line between amusement and displeasure, and catering to their tastes can be more than difficult.

I sit and fidget at the round table, glancing out the window now and again. The clock on the wall says 8:37, which means that this meeting should have started a quarter of an hour ago, but 8:20 has come and went. The nerves spur the impatience on, and it is only making for a shaken, not stirred, cocktail of perturbed. I tap my fingers violently for a minute more before I can take it no longer. I walk to the door as I count to ten in my mind and say a serenity prayer for calm, but as motion to turn the knob, it flies open.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I amsosorry!" she bursts open with, handouts and bags cradled in her arms and over her shoulder. She is scarves and tights and a modest, cerulean, turtleneck dress cutting below the knee with suede boots and a grey pea coat so worn that it's tearing at the seams.

I then look into her eyes, which is the biggest mistake I will ever make in my short twenty-five years.

They are the color of the stained beams that support the sandstone with a flicker of fire illuminating from behind.

"Oh, gosh, I am _so _late! It was my dad… There was an emergency in Seattle, and I should have called Carlisle… I am so, so sorry!"

She is petite, as if someone had made a wardrobe from all of the cotton the dryer had shrunk on accident. Her shoulder-length bob and the sweeping bangs of her almost black hair are dotted with snowflakes, now melting in the heat. Her cheeks are raw, rosy, and wind-whipped. My mouth turns into a summer drought, and my palms a humid rainforest. My mind pulls a blank card, and I am unsure of what to say. The misplaced anger has dissipated at the drop of a hat, and in its wake, I flounder for direction.

"No harm, no foul," I chuckle, partly because of the her-induced nerves, partly at how stupid I must sound.

Before I can think, her gloves are off, there are tiny hands on my back, and I am hugging a breathing, life-size doll.

"Bella Swan. I prefer hugs to handshakes; I hope you don't mind."

"Edward Masen," I sputter.

Bella Swan explains that her father is undergoing chemotherapy at a specialty hospital, and that last night there were minor complications, hence her lateness while she tried to rush back. Of course, I tell her that there is nothing to forgive. She is loud, and boisterous, and finally someone hears the racket.

Carlisle walks into the room, and I assume it is to reprimand her, but he is smiling and embracing her instead like they are old friends. "Hey, Swan. I'm glad that you're here, but tone it down, will you? No need to scare off any of the seminary boys now. Oh, and how's Charlie? Any progress?"

"He should make it until Esme's due date," she responds, giggling a bubbly laugh at a joke all her own.

Finally, the pieces of the puzzle fit as conversations from the past few weeks run through my head, and overwhelming understanding washes through me in a miniscule epiphany. "You're Esme's sister!"

The smile on her lips is shy, and I can feel her embarrassment secondhand. "Yes, I am… Now, we should get to planning; shall we?"

The organization and execution goes off without a hitch, and after the ten o'clock mass, we sit talking in the sacristy. Somewhere between a hug and a youth Gospel, I learn that her name is Isabella Marie Cecilia Swan. She picked Cecilia as her Confirmation name because St. Cecilia is the patron saint of music, but Marie and Isabella are family names that have lingered for decades. Isabella prefers Bella, so that's what she goes by – Bella. She doesn't believe in politics, but believes that it is important to vote. There is an aura of energetic albeit quiet passion for life that rolls off her like the constant coming of the tides. She prefers hugs to handshakes, black over white, and she drinks iced coffee rather than having it piping hot.

I have known her for five hours and twenty-three minutes. But I want to know her for the rest of her life, and there is nothing more frightening.

.o.

I see her for the second time during the next Sunday of Advent. It has been requested by me that we permanently reside over all proceedings regarding child-friendly teachings of the Bible. Carlisle has no problem pawning off the task to his sister-in-law and myself; she is eager to spend even more time with the young ones. I express my sentiments that I am as well, but only I know that my happiness is coming from the fact that I get to see her yet again.

While the week passed by, she stuck to my thoughts like Double Bubble to a sneaker's sole. It scares me that I have thought about her night and day, but how can one feel shame for remembering someone so unforgettable? Girls have never caught my eye, but that was attributed to the fact that I chose God before lust. Friendships were just that, and beautiful women were to be treated with respect.

But this is different, and I am exceedingly confounded to how I should respond. Before I tempt myself further with putting myself in her presence, I stop at the chapel to pray for the strength to carry on. My mental health is askew as it drowns in the 'what-if's, and if this is the work of the Devil, then I will join Lucifer at my own hand. I see her loving me in the dead of night, our children with her identical crafted porcelain chin, cheekbones, and nose, and her dwarfed hand in mine with a gem on her ring finger.

The vision in my head personifies any and every hesitation I have had about the priesthood. With Bella Swan around, it is hard to _want_ to be alone.

My knees are sore by the time I have said all of the mysteries twice. My rosary beads burn between my fingers, and yet I cannot say she is out of mind. I take a breath, but my dreams of banishing her are in vain. I carry on with the deep in and out motion of my lungs, and eventually I stand to face her. I can feel the looming demise around the corner, but I am determined to stay strong because I have no other alternative.

I walk into the room where we last met, and there she is. I try to restrain my mouth, but it is a futile effort as the sentence slips from my tongue. "Do you want to get coffee sometime?"

For the most unbearable tenth of a minute, she wrinkles her nose and purses her lips, but then she finally gives me my answer and a grin. "I'd love to."

.o.

Coffee turns into Tuesday lunch, and I am both grateful and upset because of her scheduling conflicts. On one shoulder, my angel is screaming that nothing good can come of this, and on the other, my devil is speaking in such a slow and seductive tone that Bella is all that I will ever want. I am torn in two directions, and it's unclear which way of the fork I will head down. I know what I want, what I should want, and what I truly need. The only hiccup is that they are all miles away from the same thing.

Bella and her native Washington self offer to show me some of the diamonds in the rough of the Port Angeles area, so I follow her instructions to a tee and end up at a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon that smells like God himself is working the line. She is waiting for me in the same pea coat and boots she always dons, and she looks… stunning.

"Edward!" she greets me, and then follows up with her trademark hug. I revel in the way I fit around her for the four seconds we share, and then slink back to take her all in. Her canary scarf is an alarming neon shade, but it is only fitting for a wild thing like her.

I grin back at her and attempt to convey exactly how happy I am to be with her. "Bella, it's so good to see you."

"I'm hope you're hungry," she says. "I think you're going to love this place!" Her zeal is contagious, and I can't help but feel my mood skyrocket up, up, and away. I want to tell her that I would follow her into any restaurant she wanted me to follow her into and kiss her and let her know I think that the sun might just possibly rise and set in her eyes – but, I grab for the door for her and file in afterward, instead.

Inside is hectic with small tables and eclectic chairs that don't match. Homey yet modern touches and accents decorate the space, and there are excerpts of lyrics speaking of breakfast and brunch painted on the walls. It smells like cinnamon and syrup with a hint of bacon wafting in the background. We sit at a table for two in the front corner, and the best breakfast for lunch of my life commences.

She holds my hand when we say grace before our otherworldly pancakes, and I would have kept her there all day if I could, or maybe even forever. We talk about everything and anything, and we are still there even two hours later when we are asked ever so politely to leave before they lock us in. I learn that she is twenty-three, only two years my junior, and aspires to become a kindergarten teacher when she finishes her masters in early childhood education, while still holding her position as youth coordinator at the parish.

The same uniting force that I feel with my seminary brothers falls over Bella and I. Conversation flows easy like a river that is content to not rush and take its time with a steady trickle. Typically an awkward shield of shyness and self-doubt comes between myself and other people, but with her, I am an open book, just begging for her to know me.

Every time she opens her mouth, I swear I fall even harder, ever faster. There is a second hug before we part ways, and I struggle to let her leave.

"Thank you so much for lunch. You were right; I loved it," I say, and she blushes a deep carnation red. I want to ask why she's so flustered by my statement, but not at the risk of frazzling her further.

"We'll have to go back sometime," she suggests, and I can't disagree.

"I'd like that."

My heart has taken over my brain, and there is nothing that I can do except pray for the guidance to stay nowhere near Bella Swan and return things to their proper state. I cannot live out my vocation with thoughts of her by my side.

Immediately, I am convinced that I may never be strong enough to let her get away.

.o.

Tuesday night I do not sleep a wink. I toss and turn until I loose count of how long I lay awake. The guilt is suffocating, and I struggle to regulate my breathing. All consuming, crushing – it's bigger than my body can take. I ultimately drop to the floor in the wee hours of the morning, praying on my sheets that God will give me the will to make it through his tests.

By faith is being challenged, and I am conflicted. For the first time, in the only place I have ever felt wanted, I wish my life wasn't mine.

.o.

"Thank you so much for helping Bella out with this," Carlisle says as we exit our midday prayer service. "She's really going through a lot with Charlie. Esme feels horrible about leaving things mostly up to her, but with the baby… Anyway, all I wanted to say was thank you for all your help."

My voice is rough and tired, an attribute to my restless night. "Really, Carlisle, it's my pleasure." Internally, I cringe. He has no idea how much I enjoy her company, and hopefully, he never will.

"Oh, also, Bella wanted you to call her – something about a meeting. She talks so fast on the phone; I can never understand her. Do you have her number?"

I don't, but I hesitate to answer. I am wary of building more ties that I will only have to cut later. Carlisle takes this as cue, and I have no choice but to take the piece of paper he hands me with her ten-digit number.

I return to my dorm, and with shaky hands I dial.

She picks up on the first ring, and even though I tell myself she wasn't waiting for this call, I can't squash the pleasant tightening in my chest. "Hello?" She sounds distorted over the phone, but still bright – happy.

"Bella? It's Edward. Carlisle said you wanted to meet, so he gave me your number. I hope that's okay," I ramble, and she rushes to correct me.

"Oh, it's perfect, actually! I'm so sorry to spring this on you, but are you free tonight? There's some stuff I wanted to go over with you about Sunday, and I'm with my dad the rest of the week. Today is my only opening. I should have mentioned this yesterday, but it slipped my mind. Maybe… Can I bribe you with dinner? Would that be okay?"

For the briefest moment, I forget that I am training to be God's servant. I forget that I am bound by vows to abstain and live in celibacy. I forget that I will never be married, or have children, or share myself in the most intimate of ways.

I accept that in this moment, I am living with no reservations. "Can I pick you up at six thirty?"

.o.

I pull out her chair as she sits down at the diner, another one of her hometown finds. The atmosphere is of comfort food and warmth; I feel at ease. Snow is falling in light tufts from the dark sky, and the long winter days make it seem as if it is much later than it really is. Her face is tired as I sit, but her eyes are still awake, burning softly like the last log in the fireplace.

Being in her presence is a rush so unique. She makes my heart speed, and my head spin. It hurts to feel this much, to _ache_ this much, but at the same time, she makes me feel alive. She lets me live and be young and think recklessly; it's intoxicating in the best possible way. I try to hide my smile, and fail, which in turn lends to her own Cheshire grin.

"What are you smiling at?" she teases, and now it is my turn to be rouge-faced.

"I don't even know. You make me smile," I respond with the utmost of truth.

She laughs, and laughs, and the sound is off key, but still so _her_. "Well, that's better than some of the other reactions I've gotten!"

We chuckle some more, but then end up looking at our menus, still smiling and acting like we are years younger than we are. She orders the soup de jour, and I get the hamburger special. While we wait for our food, we plan for the next mass. The way she speaks about the children is awing. Only a fool would mistake it for anything other than love and dedication.

Soon enough our number is up, and once again, she grips my hand for a quiet blessing. Sparks shoot from my palm, up my arm, and into my torso. The feeling is addicting, and I am disappointed when she lets go. As she sips at her soup, the conversation turns to a direction that I should have expected, but makes me pause anyway. "So, what made you decide to become a priest?"

Countless of people have asked, but I can count on one hand the people whom I've told the truth to. "I guess the Church is the only place where I've feel like I belong."

She cocks her head with a wry smile, as if considering whether or not she wants to ask more. "I used to say the same thing about Girl Scouts when I was six."

Our laugher – together – fills the room around us, and any tension that there may have been evaporates. More banter ensues as we polish off the rest of our meals, but Bella asks if we mind staying a bit longer. Of course, I agree, and we ask for two hot chocolates.

"How is your father doing?" I ask, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Her smile flees, and her expression is pained. I see the wall come down with my very eyes.

"He's… We're not really sure. It's stage three, but… This was a long time coming. My mom died about ten years ago, and it's been downhill since then. We all dealt with it in different ways – obviously. Esme and I found Jesus, and he found a bottle. It… It is what it is. I love him, but I don't know if he's going to make it given the circumstances…" her voice trails off with a crack, and my heart breaks for her in large, splintering shards. "I just don't know how I'm going to deal with all of it." A lone tear slips down her cheek, and I grab her hand for the second time, now noticing how fragile it feels in mine.

"I'm always here, Bella."

That night, I pray for the children. I pray for peace. I pray to be stronger. But, most importantly, I pray for Bella Swan.

.o.

Over the course of the next week, I see Bella four different times. The stress is more pronounced as each day passes, so I make note to double my prayers. Even so, her exhaustion does not slow her down one bit. She is still as flamboyant as ever, and the times that I can actually catch the stress on her skin are few and far between. To find someone with as much spirit as Bella Swan has is… something to truly behold.

I have yet to escape guilt's pursuits, and it has surely taken its toll. A decent night's rest has become nothing more than a facetious rumor. Scenarios of us – _together_ – run through my head, and I am stuck, locked inside my mind each time I lay my head on my pillow. We are naked, and there are no secrets between us. I am not training to become a priest, and she is not the deacon's sister-in-law. We are only Edward and Bella, drinking each other in like we will never meet again.

Each morning I wake up in a cold sweat, panting, with stained boxers.

The concept that I cannot have Bella Swan is something that I have yet to process. I try to expand on the idea of having my cake and eating it to, but I know that it will never happen. Leaving the seminary is not an option. Going back to my prior life, only existing instead of living, would only defeat me, and married priests in the Catholic Church are the epitome of taboo.

In the back of my mind, I know that Bella Swan will marry a man who can love her the way she deserves. She will have the white picket fence and yard with the swimming pool and kids. A diamond will adorn her left hand, and she will be happy with someone else.

And I will watch, overjoyed at her pleasure, and incorrigible at my loss.

As quick as the thoughts come into my mind, I send them out. I try not to linger for fear that it really may happen. Today we are to finish painting the set for the Christmas pageant next week. I have been here almost two months, and I cannot believe that Advent is coming to an end. The thought catches me off guard when I realize how much time has passed. Maybe it should be attributed to the fact that I have a welcome distraction filling my days, or the fact that St. Angela's has filled the void that I was unaware I even had.

The clock on the wall reads 5:42, and Bella is twelve minutes late. My phone begins to vibrate, and I assume that it's Bella, calling to let me know she'll be here soon and assuage my unneeded worries. When I see the screen, I realize that it is not Bella when it is, in fact, Carlisle.

"Hello?"

"Edward…" he pauses. "It's Charlie."

.o.

I speed the whole way to Seattle General, only fathoming the prejudices being formed about drivers with Jesus fish on the back of their cars.

I walk as fast as socially acceptable inside a hospital, and up to the nurses' station. I ask to see Charlie Swan, but the nurse has other plans. She is sassy in her delivery, and it puts me on further edge. "There are no visiting hours for anyone but immediate family in oncology's ICU."

Lying as soon as the sentence forms in my head, I plead my case. "Look… He's my fiancée's father. Please, is there anything that you can do?"

She is reluctant to give me the okay, but I know I have her when she gives a small huff. "Room three seventeen. Go up three floors, take a left out of the elevator, and he's on that corridor."

I head for the elevator, reciting silent Hail Mary's the whole ride up.

When I come to room three seventeen, I know immediately that I am too late.

The room is flooded with people, doctors and nurses, in blue scrubs. A crash cart lies unused in the corner, and the flat line on the monitor rings like a demonic siren. Esme is weeping quiet tears in Carlisle's lap from the side couch, and Bella is shaking, blubbering, and emitting gut-wrenching sobs from her father's side. People part like the Red Sea as I come to her side and pull her to me.

There are no words, only screams, and I tighten my arms around her. We sit back onto the recliner behind us as people filter out of the room. She clutches at my coat and cries into my neck, and I wish I had the power to raise the dead for her.

I rub her back, and bring her even closer, whispering Glory Be's into her ear until she is lulled asleep by the sound of my voice.

.o.

I am awakened by a tap on my shoulder to see Carlisle's solemn face in front of mine. He whispers, as not to disturb the sleeping Bella tucked snug into my side. "Esme and I are going to go home. Can you drive Bella back to her place?"

I nod while I gather the rest of my bearings. Carlisle writes down the directions how to get to her apartment on a spare napkin, and tuck it into my pocket. Carefully, I lift my arms under her knees and carry her through the hospital and parking lot, and into the passenger seat of my Volvo. She doesn't make a sound, and I hope that sleep claims her from reality as long as it can.

The two hours pass swiftly on the open road with nothing but my thoughts. When we reach her complex, Bella opens her eyes with a slow fluttering of lashes. She surveys the scene, and wordlessly acknowledges where we are and what has happened, and when she opens her door, I follow. She leads me up two flights of stairs and unlocks the first door on the right. Her apartment is full of a champagne candle smell, messy, but with a method to the chaos.

She shuffles out of view for a minute while I wait in the quaint kitchen and peruse the rest of her life from my perch. Her apartment is tiny, but perfect for her. I hear the flush of a toilet, and Bella reemerges in a long red flannel shirt three sizes too big and off-white long johns. Her bangs are shaggy as they hang down and hide her line of sight, but I can tell that her lids are swollen and scarlet. The sight of her like this, resigned and broken like a young filly fresh from its first saddle, kills me.

I ask her if she wants me to stay, even though the thought of leaving is incomprehensible.

She stutters her answer through a hoarse voice and errant tears. "W-w-would you mind staying with me t-tonight?"

I gulp, but resolve myself to be who she needs me to be. "Of course, Bella."

We both head to her bedroom, and that fact alone sends me into a tizzy. Her delicate sniffs keep the inappropriate notions at bay, but the raw iron queen bed in the center of the room makes it that much harder. She slips underneath the white comforter while I stand awkwardly by the door, absolutely frazzled.

"Do you… I'll sleep on the couch," I spit out hurriedly, but her answering wailing, "no," stops me in my tracks.

"Come here," she says. "Just… Stay with me. Please?" In this moment, Bella Swan is the earth's most deadly creature, and I am powerless.

As if I could refuse her.

Together we fall asleep in her bed, under her covers, with our hands cemented. We say the rosary twice, and by the time we reach the Luminous Mystery, Bella is out like a light. I lay awake for a few minutes more… terrified, content, and at odds with the world. When I say my private prayers, I ask for guidance. I ask that Charlie reaches Heaven's gates, and I ask that this fragment in time, with her next to me, so close that I can see her eyelashes rise and fall with the coming of her breath, last as long as the Lord will allow.

.o.

Sometime during that night, I am awoken by the sounds of falling rain on the metal roof above. I am roasting under the downy bedspread, and as I try to wrestle it away, it's brought to my attention that Bella is melted to my side with her right leg casually thrown over mine. Every inch of her is scorching on my bare skin, but with the gentle scratch of the cotton knit and the cloying softness of the flannel, the feeling is… _indescribable_.

My entire body is crawling with the realization of where I am, and while it is so, so pleasant to be next to Bella, I am burning up. I try to scoot over without disturbing her, but the attempt is fruitless. She stirs a bit before she opens her eyes, giving a cat stretch and gradually sitting up.

She rubs at her eyes and asks for the time, and I tell her groggily after looking at the clock's blue glow. "It's four thirty-four."

"My God," she mumbles. "Why is it so hot in here?"

The flannel is gone before I have the chance to avert my eyes, and she is wearing a black tank top, clinging to her chest with the aid of a thin sheet of perspiration. The next to go are her long johns, and I cannot control myself as my eyes wander. I am staring at her pale legs lit by the moon's eerie white light; her body is so small – so tiny. From her toes and ankles to her slightly bowed hips, I make my way up her body with my vision. I estimate that I can fit my hands around her waist, and I have the urge to try and find out for myself.

Traveling farther, her breasts are… just right for her body, not too big, and not too small. I come to her face, and her exhausted eyes are staring straight at mine. My embarrassment is palpable in the air, and I am first speechless, and then paralyzed as she comes towards me. When she passes the invisible median dividing us, she halts and tilts her head in blatant curiosity and… hesitation? I don't know what she is thinking, but I pray to all the saints that she stay where she is. Abruptly, a determined spark overtakes her, and the bulb behind her sockets flickers on. She draws closer and closer until her nose is within and inch of mine, and I would be blind, deaf, and dumb to not know what is happening as her lips touch me.

She presses down, and I am so afraid of what this means. I am panicking; panicking that I will be unable to stop myself.

Her lips are lightly chapped from the Washington winter, but still pliant. I pull back, but in our game of cat and mouse, I am the mouse. She finds me again, this time latching onto the base of my neck and keeping me there. The feeling is cornering, and my anxiety further blossoms. Her mouth is forceful and hot, and closed mouth turns into kisses packed with tongue and teeth.

My conscience is zipping between right and wrong, but she whispers to me quietly against my cheek. "Please."

She sounds hollow, and needy, and I cannot say no to her. I am soon lost in the moment, so immersed in her that my basic level instincts have taken over my head. We are sloppy together, tongues going every which way. She tastes of faint toothpaste and epithelial tissue, but it is a natural flavor as we react to each other. Tentatively, I reach to curl my fingers around her chin, almost meaning to pull her away, but guiding her whole body closer to me instead. With ever second ticking by that we are attached by a kiss, the guilt mounts, and mounts, and mounts, and…

Gasping, I find clarity. "Bella, we need to stop. Celibacy – I have vows… Oh, God, what am I going to do… Please, Bella. Please tell me that this isn't okay," I am begging her by the end, but for what I don't know. Whether it is for her to deliver me from certain sin and tell me to begin my penance on my knees, or give into everything the Devil has to offer, I cannot even…

"Edward? Edward, look at me," she says, and I do. I look, and I see how honest her eyes are… and my reservations are fleeing. This must be an alternate reality where her father hasn't just died, and where I can actually be the right man for Bella Swan. But, her skin feels too real for this to be a mirage as she leans in inch by torturous inch. With trepidation in my hands, I find her hips, and lead her into my lap.

When I let her feel me through my boxers, my surrender surfaces as a rough groan.

My hands tighten over the slight cushion around her bones, and our teeth clink violently as we struggle for each other. I roll her underneath me, and the movement is so natural it surprises us both. She is pulling at the bottom of my undershirt, and it comes free easily. Her nails press into the flesh of my shoulder blades, and I want more. Moving together, we are frenzied like piranhas at the sight of blood. The black tank is next to go, and the view of her nearly sends me over.

I feel her heartbeat, and her breasts, and her sensitive nipples, and revel in how _alive_ we are. This is so new to me, so foreign, and I am flustered to the point of euphoria. We press back and forth between us, and there are too many layers. I can focus on nothing but her, and the jumbled words and near silent moans she is emitting as I kiss down her neck, collarbones, and her chest. The air heavy with the smell of warm skin on skin fills the room with a pungent perfume.

With my elbow as support, I reach down with one hand down her stomach, farther, underneath, until my fingertips find her wet skin. I am unsure as rub in circles, not knowing exactly how to proceed, but trying anyway. She is clawing for breaths like I've found the right direction, and I want to make this memorable for her. If we are to destroy whatever morals we have in our private Sodom and Gomorrah at her command, then so be it.

And damn the rest all to Hell.

"Show me," I implore.

She complies, sending her hand over my right, delving a bit deeper under her damp cotton. We kiss, and kiss, and she keeps me in the moment before I can drift to wondering about the consequences of our actions. People will speculate about what happened, and we will have to tell them the abbreviated truth. Father Black will disappointed along with Michael, Paul, and Marcus, and the rest of the parish, but Bella…

Bella is worth it, and I refuse to look back and have my life turn into a pillar of salt.

I venture even farther, and dare to slip my fingers in and out. The rhythm is clumsy on my inexperienced hands, and a part of me yearns to have taken the obvious road years ago and to know my way around the bend. But this is now, and we are here, so I try my best to please her.

Bella's breath is coming in short, harsh pants, yet she still manages to speak. "Edward, take them off. Oh, Jesus. Take them off."

I falter at her words, and a pit of self-doubt settles in the pit of my stomach. I am nervous, obviously, but I remember her pleas. I remember that she wants this, and it gives me the resolve to be a man and guide the fabric down her legs, all the while relishing at the smoothness of her thighs and calves as I draw downwards.

My own breathing is erratic and hurried. I am overwhelmed by sensation. The scene below me is of Bella's naked body. She is flushed from the hundreds of capillaries expanding in excitement. Never in my life did I think I would be here, with Bella Swan no less. In my past I was the golden boy, the good egg, goody two-shoes personified. I was the designated driver and sensible friend who understood the true importance of the Sabbath. If only they could see me now, in between the legs of a beautiful woman.

Her hand is on mine again, and we are moving faster than before. We continue like this until she lets go to drag against my lower back, digging slowly to create indentations above my ass. Our kisses are open-mouthed; more the exchanging of hot air than anything. I rest my forehead on hers and close my eyes, doing nothing but feeling the quick contractions of her inner walls around my fingers.

She is breathy and high-pitched as she comes, but the look on her face is worth it. I settle next to her side and wait as she regains her faculties, satisfied that I could give her something like this. I try not to bring any attention to myself, but cannot resist palming my cock through my boxers. This experience has been positively mind-blowing, and absolutely beyond sensual, and it has left me yearning for a release of my own. Sooner than expected, Bella is propping herself up and watching my hands move across my shaft over the fabric. Carefully, seemingly trying to not spook me, her hand tugs away mine, and her fingers hook into the elastic band of my underwear and pull down.

I am now full of such unsure thoughts. Will she like what she sees? Will she change her mind and come to back into the reality that this is the most sinful thing that I have ever done? Will she tell Esme about our encounter? Will Carlisle find out? Will she want me in her life from now on? _What does this mean? _The doubting comes back with a vengeance, and the only thought on my mind is that I can't be here. I have to leave. I have to return us to some form of purity even though it is impossible to turn back the clock.

"Edward, wait!" she laments as I spring from the bed. I do my best with my scrambled wits to make it out her door as quickly as I can, but the echoes of my name bouncing off the walls slow me. I ultimately leave with only my pants, coat, and car keys, and by the time I stop driving I am at the same impasse I was at three months ago.

.o.

"Edward? Edward, it's been three days," Riley pleads, and I almost feel bad for denying him. But I keep my head bowed and hands clasped tightly. "Edward, you can't stay here for the rest of your life. Come on, your knees… People are worried. It'll be okay. Whatever happened… it'll be okay; I promise."

God and I both know that you can't erase the past. All I can do is pray that He will forgive me.

Riley sees that I'm not moving, so he leaves a bottled water and brown lunch bag on the pew next to me with a resigned sigh. "Just come home, Ed," he says before walking away.

My knees are violent indigo and black, and my hands are shaking from the constant hold on my rosary beads. I have said countless Hail Mary's, and yet I still feel dirty. Only God has the right to judge me, but I will judge myself a thousand times over for what I've done.

.o.

I am more or less hiding in the choir loft as the funeral procession paces out of St. Angela's. Carlisle made it known to me when the funeral was being held, and I decided I had to attend – out of obligation, of course. I have not seen or talked to Bella Swan in eight days, but I know it's best this way. She needn't remember me, but the memory of her will always remain. Bella Swan will be my only mistake.

I trudge quietly down the stairs and past more attendees filing out. Some people are milling amongst the pews, recalling the pleasant days before it all came to and end. I see Father Black at the front of the church as he waves me forward. Ignoring him, I dash to the back entrance when I feel a light touch on my elbow.

I spin on heel to find her tugging me into the bride's room.

Bella drags me in, and I am lost. The cut is too raw, the pain too deep. The black clothing her seems so unfitting, but it's only appropriate given current events. She lost her world, and I lost mine.

She is inquisitive in her questioning. "Where were you?"

"Phoenix," I answer shortly. Every second longer that I spend with her is a second long hanging on my own personal cross – pure agony.

"Why'd you leave?" she asks. Her lip is quivering, and her pupils are swimming in tears.

"I… I had to go, Bella. I had to."

"You didn't," she insists, and be that as it may, it was wrong, nonetheless. The 'what-could-have-been' is long past gone, and all I want is to escape her world and dive back into another. I want nothing to do with her. I have nothing to say but goodbye, so I do.

"Goodbye, Bella."

.o.

It is late summertime, and the leaves are just perched to fall from the trees. As a child in Chicago, I remember this time for the sweet apples and peaches just coming into harvest, and the raspberries waiting to be picked. I remember what it was like to be a child, carefree with no demands.

There is only one other person I have ever met who has made me feel summertime in my chest in the dead, dead cold. It was months ago that I left her, but months ago I was a different man.

I take stair after stair up to the distant apartment with a bouquet of daisies in my left hand. Daisies are her favorite, or they were at least last November. Knocking raptly on her door, I am anxious to how I will be received, but I know that whatever happens is meant to be.

She opens the door after the briefest of time, and she is different, too.

Her hair is longer, and eyes not as bright. Yet, she is still the same her from before. We stare at each other for a few seconds. Her mouth drops into a delicate 'o,' and it's as if I'm seeing her again for the first time – wet palms and dry mouth. Through it all, I make myself spit out the words.

"Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

I am prepared for a multitude of reactions, but only hoping for one.

"I'd like that," she rasps out with a watery smile, and it's all worth it in this one instance. Even if she is engaged with a white picket fence waiting in the wings, as long as she gives me a chance, I know everything will be okay.

The praying I had done… The guidance I had asked for… Every second of my existence was spent looking to God for all of my questions. Little did I know, God's answer to all of my prayers was a second chance with a woman named Bella Swan.

* * *

_I'm not Stephenie Meyer, and _**TwilightCakes **_is such a doll for all of her help. Mwah. _

_Plot Bunny #1:_

_One of the Twi guys (likely Edward, but could be any of them) is all set to go to seminary school. He has never doubted his calling, but his faith is shaken when he sees the one he longs for. Which path does he take? Can he reconcile his two desires? Could be any pairing - slash or not. _


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